


Emotions

by kurukujo



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blade Runner AU, Dystopia, Future, Future Fic, Neo-Noir, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-11-06 08:58:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11032932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurukujo/pseuds/kurukujo
Summary: "Robots, in her opinion, have always been junk food for thought. Junk food for power. They're easy to command, because they have no will. And they have no will because nobody wants them to have it. People want robots to be their perfect twins, exception made for everything inside. Junk food for power."In a dystopian future San Francisco, a lawyer's ordered to investigate a series of thefts.(Deliberatedly inspired by Blade Runner.)





	1. After Dark

The moment dinner is served, the air gets thick.

"So, what did you call me here for?" she says, glance cold and hands firmly stuck in fists on the table, not daring to touch the refined fish plate she'd ordered. The other blinks, smiles, and doesn't move an inch, not even to scoff, nor to look taken aback. And, to be honest, she didn't expect her to be surprised by her direct inquiry.  
      "This is not an ideal place to meet in for a conversation like this, you know," she urged. Her hands still wouldn't move from the plastic surface.

Silence lingered for a moment or two: the other woman, without saying a thing, and keeping a grin on her face, brings her manicured hands towards the towel, in order to royally grab the tissue and place it on her thighs. Her light-colored hues slowly move from her towel towards her companion, which is about as cold as the walls of the dior, while still keeping a smile.

"I'm not happy either about being here, but as unsafe as it may be, it's the most unsuspectable." a scoff comes from the other, hinting an ironic smirk as her position is still and stiff.  
      "Two _women_ walking into a brothel is in the norm, but it's not so in the norm to see a _lawyer_ walk into it," a pause, focus on dish, then on the dior's curtains. For being a low-class brothel, it is surely amazing that they can afford see-through curtains, she thinks, "But maybe it's just because I don't visit them often. Maybe there are more lawyers in here than I can imagine."  
      "There are definitely more lawyers than you can imagine." unlike her, the woman sitting on the other side of the table has already grabbed the fake woodenware, taking apart the cooked salmon with the accuracy of a coroner--although she is not eating it. Not yet. "We're digressing," the white haired mused, looking complacent about her observation. "We're not here to talk about lawyers fucking prostitutes, aren't we?"

As much as she hates her job, as much as she hates everything related to it and the fact that this is the only career she can afford, there are times in which she is forced to accept jobs that are out of a normal lawyer's grasp, in order to gain a little more cents than usual. Or, to be more down-to-earth, she's forced to accept these jobs simply because no one else wants to risk their life over it, or to deal with the subjects that they include. Nobody, in law, wants anything to do with things such as that kind of shit.  
      Salice knows, and she doesn't want to, either. But if she can do anything to make this torture of a career more exciting and less unproductive, it's this.

She sighs, resigned- since a long, long time. But she feels especially defeated and resigned right now as her muscles relax, her fingers moving to take ahold of the ware at her hands' sides. The way she cuts and eats her salmon is much less princely than her company's.  
      "We're here to talk about illegal electronics production."  
      "You did your homework! So you _did_ read the communique I transmitted!" the white haired ebony giggled, stuffing an intact piece of salmon into her mouth.  
      "You talk as if I'm actually able to ignore upper orders from your department."  
      At that, the woman laughs again, but says no more.

Before talking, they both take their sweet time savoring the spiced fish, glancing nowhere else but their plates, sipping their drink and eventually cleansing their mouths. A comfortable silence spent observing subtly eachothers' hands, trying to capt a sort of language, to understand if either of them said something, or tried to, in a way. The blaring music behind the courtains is static and monotone; it doesn't quiet itself like it doesn't get louder, and by glancing at the side, they can both easily see the robotic, brand-named strippers move sinuously like bellydancers, their unnatural artificial hair swirling around the poles. The sweat that once was found so attractive in a real woman is nowhere to be found- their hair is always dry, so are their lips, their skin. And yet the men are so fond of this macabre imperfection, attracted to shells with no thoughts, no programming, not a single ounce of conscience. Robots, in Salice's opinion, have always been junk food for thought. Junk food for power. They're easy to command, because they have no will. And they have no will because nobody wants them to have it. People want robots to be their perfect twins, exception made for everything inside. Junk food for _power_.  
      Her glance's taken back to reality by the other woman's cough, which successfully gains Salice's attention.

"There's been thefts."  
      " _Thefts?_ " Salice responds, impassively, as she scrolls her shoulders. "Of what? Robotics? Everyone does it. Everyone wants to build. Everyone can if they want to, let it be rich or poor. A little servant is what the people want."  
      "Robotics, yes. And as much as it's a common problem, the issue is that these thefts involve huge-named corporations. You know, like Agora Incorporated, Prometheus Tech. Don't snort, because this is not a joke," she told her, but she's doing just about the same. "I know it's laughable that they pretend to be extremely secured, but it's not the matter at hand. What I'm trying to say is that these thefts not only involve mechanical body parts of both gyno and andro models, but also include project stocks and core plans." noticing Salice's perplexed expression, she explains further. "In case you're missing the terms, paper drawn projects and file-stocked cartidges have been taken from these big guys." and though she's been smiling through the entire conversation, this is the moment in which her lips flatten.

Salice understands right away that this is, most likely, something serious. Or, at least, something serious for those corporations. And if there's something she's learnt from studying law, is that the client's problems are your problems. Any kind of problem pertaining them pertain you as soon as you take charge of the situation. This logic can be applied whenever she gets these "odd-jobs" from groups that could be defined "secret government security", even though she's not so sure they are that much related to the government. None the less, she gets the money.

And that's just about enough.

"So, what you're saying is that their companies are at risk?"  
      "Not only that. They also fear that someone might be trying to build a robot on their own."  
      "And how bad could that be?"  
     "Enough, because whoever stole that stuff is definitely not planning just to make some stupid floor-cleansing robot." a pause is left for silence to linger, and the lawyer spends the moment by stuffing more salmon into her mouth, chewing silently and glancing at the other with a gaze that queries what use is there even to stop talking. "They're trying to make an android. And if you read enough articles and watch enough programs, you will be well aware that androids are not a filmsy thing to handle. Even less to create."  
      Salice understands a little better, but not enough. What she can guess, though, is that she's most likely going to work for people that are afraid of their legacies' stability, just as they are afraid of the frequent riots happening in the dark suburbs and the neon-lit poor blocks of the city. The production of electronic material has granted these companies enough importance to become the literal business people of the whole zone, overpowering politicians, and to a point, even the presidence- making the fourth industrial revolution become mixed with a new corrupted political ethic. But it is not so much of a shock as one might think; simply because everything has always been sustained by industry and their power-hungry bosses. Everyone knows, and everyone can do little to nothing about it. It would be more precise, however, to say that would be half a lie. Some people deliberatedly ignore and approve of this system, and the most common traits of this bigger percent are wealth, and cowardice. Alternatively to the latter, there's passive people, unable to come up with an idea to go against this new society. Salice bluntly considers herself one of the latter category, because she profits from the offered products, and because of her laziness.

Truth is, she doesn't care about the world now because reminiscing the old era and expecting a new one rise from its ashes is simpleminded. As long as she's alive, she can consider herself half-dead. Everything she truly cared about stopped existing, and she's lost all will to go against these dystopian conventions people now are forced to face themselves, integrate and cope with.

"I see." the gulp she throws down is bitter. It's not the taste- it just feels bitter. "So I need to investigate these thefts?"  
     "So, you need to investigate the thefts and identify who's behind them to me as soon as you find out. Preferabily quick, because the big guys want to avoid another strife."  
     "I'm guessing whoever's behind them isn't going to have an happy ending."  
     "That's not my concern, but I guess so, too. The solution to crime, nowdays, is convoying."  
Which is a nicer term for _killing_ , Salice thinks.  
     "In any case," says the white haired woman, "That doesn't concern you, either. All you gotta do is find out what they're up to, and who they are. It'd be even better if you build up yourself a cause to arrest them, so that the others won't have to force something that may sound stupidly unbelievable and corrupt as they actually are. You're a fair woman, with a clever mind, on the contrary," she sips her drink, before slashing her face with a cunning smile; one which Salice doesn't like. "And you're a lawyer. Lawyers know how to work around this stuff in the most legal way, right?"  
      "..."

There's no way to run around this. She's just doomed to soil her hands with others' dirt, isn't she? That's the end people like her do. Salice nods, and after her simple agreement, the women both go back to eating, the night club music shouting, and the people trying to get busy with the strippers louder and louder by the second. A whole dinner with a few more plates passes on.

When they pay, they stop in front of the bar stand, Salice sits on one of the stools, and glances over at the ebony woman with an indifferent glance. On the other hand, the other woman seems unruffled, still smiling and showcasing her orange-tinted lips with nonchalance to the lawyer, the mechanical barmen, and everyone around.  
      "You're staying for a drink?", she asks, stating the obvious with consciousness.  
      "I think I'm going to need an hangover before I start."  
      The woman laughs, and after laughing, she shakes her head, looking thoroughly amused by the solemnity of Salice's tone. "Reign over that round throne and try to be sober enough so to get home safely, _Felvic_. You'll need a good rest if you intend to work that way."  
As Salice attempts to turn and order her drink, she's stopped again, "As per usual, before I forget," a grunt's emitted from the lawyer's throat, clearly getting displeased by the persistent presence of the government official. "You have as many days as you need free from law shit. We're justifying your absences, and managing your clients, if you have any."  
      "Good." she snarls, "Now, please, Psyche, leave me alone."

Psyche, the white haired ebony woman, steps out the club from the back door, pulling over her transparent black jacket over her outfit. Salice, the dull haired lawyer, turns to the counter and orders "anything alcoholic enough to dump into profound sleep a dead person".


	2. Birth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Activate transfer procedure?"  
> Her finger hovers on the "enter" button as the "yes" option is selected.  
> This would still be a problem, she thinks. But perhaps one she'd deal with willingly, and gladly. She will bear it, and will bear it with love.  
> "Transfer procedure activated. Currently initializing data transfer. Codes are being converted..."

It is approximately three in the morning, and the lights are still flicked on; she can't make any errors. This is the last step. The last tiny step she has to take in order to finally finish this. Everything is prepared, everything is set up: the body is completed, and the cables are all in the right places, just as she rightfully programmed everything she needed to program. The only missing thing is the vital energy.

She squeezes her eyes, passes the back of her hand on her forehead to wipe away the sweat to then blink a few times, staring blankly at the old computer screen sitting on the desk she's in front of.

_"Activate transfer procedure?"_

The choices are either yes, or no. It's not so hard, she knows. But it's dangerous. She's putting herself and what she's been working on for years at risk, by choosing yes. She knows this way too well- but it's too late to turn back now. Everything is assembled, and leaving it at that could leave her with problems she'd rather not deal with.

Her finger hovers on the "enter" button as the "yes" option is selected.  
This would still be a problem, she thinks. But perhaps one she'd deal with willingly, and gladly. She will bear it, and will bear it with love.

_"Transfer procedure activated. Currently initializing data transfer. Codes are being converted..."_

Definitely.

* * *

 

The moment he wakes up, everything appears with a slap in the eyes. Suddendly there's weight, he doesn't understand what it is, but it makes him feel breathless as soon as he feels it. He feels something tighten, and he doesn't know what's happening, until a vague reminder tells him it's the throat- he feels like choking- there's air missing. His chest is grasping for air, and so is his mouth, his nose. Before he can choke, however, his mouth is suddendly covered with a mask of sorts, which supplies him with the agonizing air his body was desperatedly seeking.

For a moment, his eyes are unfocused, he doesn't know where he really is, nor what the setting around him is all about, but he does see that there's an hand holding that mask. In sheer wonder of who this hand belongs to, his gaze trails from the tip of the fingers to the wrist, then the forearm, then the shoulder.

He ends up focusing on the face of an admittedly very tired young woman. There's no comment about the evident tiredness, but he does keep it in mind. Register it, in a way. There's no other reason she has such sunken eyebags; they're even visible through the glasses she's wearing.

"Are- can you breathe?" she sounds, and looks, quite shook. Like she's been surprised and terrorized to death by a scary sound. It could be that she didn't expect him to suddendly grasp for air- but it could be about that like it could be about anything else. "What kind of question... right. Uh. Idiot." she mumbles to herself, her gaze relaxing and her dirtied hand still keeping ahold on the oxygen supply mask.  
      "Don't stress yourself," she says, and he looks at her with eyes that ask "how" he shouldn't stress himself by breathing, if it has proven to be so difficult right off bat. The woman catches the meaning behind the glance, and taps the mask with a couple of fingers. "Hold this. Can you move your arm? Try moving it."

Arm. The moment she says that word, he immediately remembers what an arm is, and impulsively, he moves his right limb- although it does not reach for the mask. Not immediately, because he's getting the hang of it; flexing it and bending it, turning it around and stretching his hand along with it. It's almost as if he's been doing this since years, a very long time: when, in fact, he just now aknowledged the existence of this right arm of his.  
      "How does it feel?"  
      She's looking at his moving, functioning arm with a smile.  There's a sparkle in those pink-colored eyes of hers he can't quite figure out.  
      In response to her question, he tries to speak, but a choked sound comes out. It doesn't hurt per se, his throat feels fine, but it is annoying to the ears. The least she does, though, is squint slightly and purse her lips, still holding the mask softly and cautiously. Breathing still hurts.  
      "Don't worry about speaking if it hurts," she says, and only now he notices how her clothes are all dirtied in dark substances he doesn't know. "Just nod, or shake your head, okay?"  
He nods in response, seeking a guide in her movements and her words. He's putting his entire trust into this unknown stranger's hands, because he has no one else to offer it to. And even if it were someone else, he probably would've still been generous as he is being now.  
      "Let's try again. Can you hold the mask? Just grab it with your hand."  
      Her voice is soft, almost shy, somewhat timid, but it is determined in instructing him. Despite not knowing her, he follows the order, slowly, but with success. His hand holds the mask, and she smiles again. This time more confidently.

"Good. Now, look at me, okay? Look at my chest. I mean, well- look at me." the woman backs on her track mid-phrase, looking embarassed for a moment, and gesticulating with her hands with naturalness. Slowly, her chest rised, and then it became flat again; her mouth inhaling and exhaling air. She stops to look at him, trying to figure out wether or not he understood what she just did. By how he's still just holding the mask and breathing irregularily, he definitely did not.  
But that is not a problem.

"I want you to look at me and _imitate_ me," she demands, again, with that soft voice of hers. Is she supposed to be a commander, to intimidate him? That kind of voice is more akin to a sweet sound rather than an harsh directive. Nonetheless, he will follow whatever that statement is,  
      "Up," she says, having her chest rise, and inhaling air: he does about the same, slowly.  
      "Down..." she exhales, letting her chest go. He imitates the motion perfectly, and she smiles again, looking more and more... invested, passionate, in a way.  
      "Good! You did it! You breathed!" her lips widened, revealing a grin- a weird one, with a tiny but evident gap between her front teeth. "Now, try doing it again, okay? But slowly, and a few times. Then, do it regularily... faster. Can you try it for me?"

He tries. After a few coughs and sizzling sounds, he eventually succeeds.

* * *

 

It's been a few hours since she's managed to teach him how to live, and it's more of a chore than one might think. Although he has any human's characteristics, and the perfect ability to go through usual human habits, he is, metaphorically, a child. An innocent child, with no clue on how life works. Thus, like it takes effort to raise a baby, it will take effort to raise him, a newborn "human" with adult semblances. But for her, it's no big deal. She didn't create him just to see how he would live on his own, he isn't a machine with no conscience that automatically knows what to do from the very moment it's turned on. He is... human.

 _Technically_ , he's not. But he's probably more human than most people these days.

The roboticist sighs as she looks at the scenery outside of her window, the lights turned down, and the neon signs of the busy metropolis illuminate her visage through the transparent glass. She's hiding behind the courtains in an attempt to have some time for herself; it's an habit. She even did this when there wasn't anyone but her in this cramped up laboratory-house.  
      Joan thinks that tomorrow she needs to contact her friend, because her doses are almost finished, and because she needs to go outside. It's been a while since she's stepped out of the apartment, but not without a reason. He's the cause for her temporary isolation, but she doesn't blame him for it. What would the accusation even be? He had no clue he would end up existing until now, after all.

On the bed, he's resting. His wireless functions make it so he can charge from her computer just across the small room, and he's sleeping. Peacefully. More peacefully than earlier, that's for sure. He's sleeping like a baby would, and he's curled up in the small sheets of her bed, probably searching for some warmth to hang on to. Joan's thinking wether she should get another bed or not, but she remembers right away that she spent her whole money on him. She's shockingly poor solely for a good cause.

It's fine. She will make money by selling some stupid cleansing robots, probably, or some robotic prostitutes that will please her superiors in the government.

She blinks a few times as she sees of an ambulance passing by on the binaries not far from her apartment's height, her tired eyes more and more heavy as she keeps standing. After a few moments spent in silence without thoughts, she re-emerges from her small corner, letting the courtains fall back into place as she steps and crouches down near the bed. Her hand, after glancing at him for a moment, strokes his hair, oddly curly and real, despite the fact that it's synthetic and in the most total way made of artificial material- but what's there to think when even sylicon can mimic perfectly human skin, nowdays?

He's sleeping too profoundly to feel her touches, she thinks, which are soft purposely so to not wake him up, and she gets up from her position, stretching her legs a bit and taking a seat in the chair in front of the computer desk.  
      As her glance is still stuck on him, Joan falls asleep.

* * *

 

"I saw something."  
      The words, spoken by a smooth voice, wake her up by surprise. Joan almost risks to fall from her chair as she opens her eyes and sees him, and she lets out a small scream of shock as her hands frenetically hold onto the chair. He seems unfazed by her shock- or maybe he's confused. She can't truly tell if he doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything, in fact, as he seems to be more focused on something else. Joan didn't quite hear his words, as much as she heard the sound, which scared her.  
      "What...?"  
      "I saw... something."  
     At first, she's just as confused as he sounds. Then she remembers he did sleep- and she remembers, by consequence, that he might have dreamed. It's not entirely impossible for this to happen, but it's actually a feature she hasn't integrated yet. Simply because he doesn't have enough experience nor enough material to work on; his mind his not ready for a complex, full-fledged dream. So what did he see?  
      "Hmmm..." Joan suppresses a yawn, taking her glasses off and rubbing her eyes to wake herself a little. "...What did you see?", she asks, in a mother-like way. He doesn't speak for a whole minute, and he keeps staring at her almost as if he's searching his answer in her face.  
      "...You. I saw you."

Now Joan's confused. Her? He saw... _her?_  
      "That's..." she bites her tongue before she can continue further, her brows furrowing so to find words that wouldn't put him off. Even though, frankly, she doesn't know yet what he would like and what he would not like. "Hm. How?"  
      "How...?"  
      "How did you see me?"  
      He stops and thinks for a moment, looking elsewhere, towards the bed, as if the object would be the one to give him an answer, if not her. Joan follows his glance, looking at the bed with a perplexed gaze. His eyes were closed, and there's no hidden camera around his face- she knows because she built him himself- so how could he see her? How could he reconogize her enough to be so sure she's seen her while sleeping?  
      "...Did you feel anything?"  
      His head jerks back towards Joan. As if he remembered something.  
      "Yes." there's no uncertainty in his tone, but a bland mechanical confidence that has his expression look unemotional, although somewhat content with his "accomplisment". He remembered something else besides her, and he seems proud of it. However, a minute passes. Two minutes pass. Three minutes, and he's still staring at her, her staring back at him, both in utter and complete silence. For a moment, Joan thinks his system went into a freeze, but the way he blinks and still looks so satisfied with himself tells her that's not the case. Maybe he needs more input than she'd anticipated.  
      "...Can you tell me about it...?" her voice comes out as meek and surprisingly shy, but it's just because she doesn't know what to say.  
      "I don't know how to describe it."

Right. He may know what language is, he may automatically know how to speak English, but it doesn't mean he knows what adjective should be used for what. How stupid of her to assume he'd be right from the start conscious and quick-witted like a normal human being- his mind is still very much akin to a baby's. Her expression, although she comprehends his situation, turns slightly grim without her truly conscious about it. However, he does notice, and he does take action that her expression isn't joyful or happy as the first time he'd seen her, and consequently he imitates her, unsure of what she's doing.  
      "I'm sorry." these are the words that snap Joan out of her trance, and that make her features turn back to softened, although tired, ones. Her hand immediately cups his cheek and then she pats his head, ruffling his hair a bit, like a mother would do with her child. She attempts a smile.  
      "For what?" he hasn't got any power on it."It's okay. You'll learn how to describe it with time. Baby steps, baby steps... there's no rush."

His naivety shows as soon as he smiles again, clearly relieved, and stays there, unsure what to think of the touch she's giving him; being unfamiliar with it, he's mostly questioning the point behind it, what reason there would be for her to mess up his hair (which is fairly messy in itself).

In the realization he lacks clothes, which is triggered by glancing further down his model, Joan figures out that she should, perhaps, buy him some clothes. He probably should also eat- he's similiar enough to humans, and the digestive system is no less equal. She needs to get some food, too. He may not be hungry, but he needs to get acquainted with it. Like he will eventually need to get acquainted with everything typically human.  
      Stopping her hand motion, as he keeps observing her, Joan yawns, and slowly slides out of her seat, leaning with her hands on the desk and stretching her upper body in order to not feel completely devastated by the uncomfortable position she was just in. Then she steps over to the curtains after offering him a good-natured smile, and opens them, glancing over at the dark daytime city.

Seeing his reflection in the glass, Joan grasps something.  
      She didn't give him a _name_ while programming him.

* * *

 

After silent questioning coming from her new creation and roommate, Joan goes out to buy clothes and food, as she'd reminded herself. Scarcely written on the palm of her hand as if she were to be cheating on a test, the roboticist glanced at the small shopping list; a shirt, pants, a pair of shoes, and a jacket. As food the food, whatever might seem cheaper.  
      The reason as to why she didn't bring him with her is because he's too precious to step out of the womb, so to speak: he's inexperienced, and knows little to nothing about the world. He might be kidnapped, deceived into going somewhere dangerous. Before he can accompany her around the city, she needs to teach him about the streets, what's up and what might happen by wandering in them.

As her thoughts roam, Joan stops by a few clothing stores, picking up whatever might fit him. He's tall, and he's large even if not muscular, so she chooses the largest ones she could find. Three, four, five shirts, three pants, a pair of shoes, a long coat, and anything that might be useful to him is put on the counter. The cashier glances over at the products then at Joan, passing the product codes under an analyzator. It isn't weird, in the end- what is weird, though, is what the half-robotic cashier tells her with a smirk as she waits for her to pull out her bank code, evidently chuckling with amusement. "Special clothes for a special someone?"  
At first, she doesn't know what to say. Joan doesn't express embarassment, nor anger, but just bland confusion and question. What's the point of saying that?  
      "...Sort of."  
      She pays the bill and steps outside of the store. With the bag in her hand, she walks under the balconies in order to protect herself from the newborn rain; her eyes lay on a nomad pub barrow where some people are sitting, and with a sprint through an uncovered spot of the street, she sits under the "restaurant"'s wing herself, placing the bag nearside her. The foreign woman offers her a warm smile and a welcome; she assumes she's the cook herself.  
      "I'll take a normal soup. Medium size." before the chef can work, however, she points out a further order. "Ah, sorry... you accept takeaway orders, right?"  
      The woman nods positively, and Joan orders some fried chicken with a side of rice.

Sitting by herself and eating so pathetically is something she's grown accustomed to, like she's used to coming back home filled from tip to toe with rain, a now frequent event that barely stops. Slowly, she savours the surprising genuinety of the ingredients, eating the noodles with wrongly (but steadily) kept chopsticks, eventually stopping to glance over at her shopping bag and then to drink a sip of water. Joan doesn't like eating at home for there is too much stuff that could be soiled with the greasiness and fragility that makes food so loved- to not say she hates being alone while dining or having lunch. Even with some strangers sitting beside her, she feels somewhat at peace. She might be insignificant in the world, a fish in the ocean, but at least she knows she's not the only one. As much as she might be unimportant, there's still someway in which she's bound to someone else, like noodles in a soup. They're all scattered around in the same big sea, but they always find eachother, because it's natural for them to do so. However, this leads her mind to a question: is she going to keep eating out even with a new presence in her oh-so-empty house? Is she going to keep staring at food as if it were a metaphor of the individual's insignificance, or is she going to actually keep said new presence the company he deserves? Joan, at this point, thinks staring at noodles is better than coming up with a good-natured and thought out solution.  
      Maybe it's just her being delusional. It could be very well the case. After all, it wouldn't be so weird. She's been doing enough weird stuff- it'd be just normal if she were going completely bonkers.

(Can she really allow herself to go out of her mind, now that she's got a _responsibility,_ though?)

Then she sighs, and puts the remaining chunk of strings into her mouth. She doesn't take much time to finish, thank, pay, and go home, but with the rain, she takes more than she usually would. And when she arrives home, he's waiting for her, like an obedient puppy, on her bed. As soon as she closes the main door, his head jerks towards the entrance of the bedroom, which is opened by Joan, head turned somewhere else in an attempt to kick away a wire that was left on the floor. Muttering silent curses in a language unknown to him, she eventually lets the door half-open, the room's weak decorative neon signs illuminating the bare minimum necessary for them both to see what's going on in the room.

"You're back," he says, making a simple statement. Even with such easy words, however, he still manages to make her smile as she walks towards the bed, putting on the synthetic matress the shopping back full of clothes and then the plastic bag with the food on the desk.  
      "I'm back," she chirps, not entirely forcedly, because she is happy that he pointed it out. "Did you miss me?" it's a rethorical question and she has no clue if he will answer it, but it's been ages since she wanted to say something like this.  
     "I did feel kind of lonely." he admits without an issue. Admittedly, the phrase makes Joan stop for a second. Then she starts moving again, her smile now even wider. Dropping the jacket elsewhere, she sits beside him, taking in her hands the shopping bag and putting it on her thighs excitedly. If there's something that she's really passionate about, today, is getting the chance to bond with her newest friend.

It's kind of scary how her emotions changed as soon as she stepped inside the apartment- but it's the thought of his existence that makes her want to live a little longer. The time she gets to be a guide for someone is the time in which she feels most alive- and now's most definitely the case. Joan doesn't want him to see the grim and ugly side of her, because he's not ready for it, she likes to think. The truth is that she feels too ashamed to be open about it, but not only with him: she'd be with anybody. After years of reclusion and bad-done self care, she's lost completely track of what it feels like to have a roommate to share your life with.  
      "Before I open up these gifts I got for you," she pauses, happily, glancing at how he almost seems on edge: his eyes are fixed on the bag. "I want to ask you something very important, okay?"  
      "Hmm..." he's not listening to her quite clearly, but she'll make sure to fix that right now.  
The earlier reminder that she didn't think of a name for him made her feel lowkey guilty through her whole small shopping trip, and while she was eating she got a small idea she thought she'd try it.  
      "What's your name?"  
      "...Hmm?"  
      Indeed, the question caught him off guard. She isn't an ace at names, that's why she asked, and given his human consciousness and mind, it shouldn't be impossible for him to pick one he likes particularily. Joan has made sure to put as much information as she could in his coded mind, and names are certainly not lacking. The roboticist looks at her robot with an expectant look.  
      "...What's _your_ name?", he asks in return.  
      She didn't expect that, hence her sudden stumble in words. (What's the point in asking that?)  
      "I'm... I'm Joan." her voice's shier than she likes, but she can't fake surprise. Thoughtfully, he hums, and then proceeds to stare at her in deep thinking. What's he thinking?, Joan wonders.

In less than a minute, he has an answer.  
      "Jean."  
      It doesn't hit her at first, but as soon as she pronounces the name, she figures out something weird. Jean, Joan... it's literally one letter apart. There's nothing different about these two names if not for the first vowel. "My name is Jean," he says again, and reluctantly, he offers her an hand, as if he's attempting to do something he knows he should do, without having any real clue if he's doing it right.  
      "Nice to meet you." although his voice and words both sound robotic and mechanical, there's an undertone to how he speaks that show an uncertainty in what he's doing: a clear sign that he's learning, and not quite sure wether the procedure he just followed is correct or not.  
      Despite the odd choice, and despite the odd way this guy has, Joan realizes that he's inexperienced, completely stops thinking about the weird similarity and grabs his hand for an handshake, smiling widely, brightly, and happily.

Is she happy because she finally succeeded in creating something good, or is it because she's found someone to rely on, even if just a little bit? Is it because she doesn't feel so lonely anymore, or because he's the accomplishment she's been waiting for in all her lowly life? Joan doesn't spend time thinking about these questions as she hands him his new clothes, plaguing him with her own happiness as he imitates and is influenced, innocently, by her joyful and excitedness as they unwrap the containers and try on the brand new clothes. Instead, she spends the rest of the afternoon in helping Jean figure out how to button, unbutton a shirt, and how to zip up a hinge.


	3. Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [...] This is eerie. Creepy. This doesn't even remotely compare to resurrecting any kind of corpse. This is a sorcery in itself, and while her younger self wouldn't have bet on that, she does right now. For what reason has this bunch of porks thrown away such precious lives? They may be robots, but they're constructed to be robots with feelings. What kind of slaughter _is_ this?

It's raining yet again.

"Honey, you don't look so good. Did something happen?"

There's rain tapping her jacket, her head, and her face- and even then, Salice doesn't flinch as her mother asks her about her current condition. She wishes this video feature wasn't invented. It's not as if she needs to look good for her parents, but she doesn't like showing her face when talking through the phone. The waterproof wireless receiver lets water fall down its surface, damping and wetting Salice's hand annoyingly. She's not snorting or huffing or swearing a profanity just because her mother is looking at her.  
      "...Nah, nothing special. 's fine. As you can see, it's just some rain."

Nowadays, some specific spots of the globe are stuck with a constant type of weather, Salice presumes. She'd heard it on TV a few years back, and since then, it was one of the couple times the weather report actually got everything right. They had said that it would pour down all week, and it did rain. The memory's still there, not because it was particularly memorable, but for the sole mentioned fact that they predicted it right. This morning the report assumed that it would be just cloudy in the afternoon, and it's been raining for at least four hours. Not a single ounce of sun.

On the other hand, her parents live in constant sweat. Or to be more precise, people who aren't as lucky as them end up in a sweat bath. Italy might not be constantly wet, but she doesn't envy the constant sunlight, either. It must be hell for two elderly people like her mother and father.  
      "Oh, yes, I see, I see. Who would've thought, though! For San Francisco, a beach city, to be stuck with perpetual and unstoppable rain... it must've been a laugh. It is for me!"

The elderly woman, in her sixties, is speaking Italian. Accordingly, Salice does the same. Her mom never knew a single word in English, and to be honest, if she hadn't had to go and study in England, she wouldn't have made the effort, either. Italian is still her favourited language over any other.  
     "Hmmm. I guess so. I don't think it's that weird... it rained in England, and it rains in here. I don't really see a difference, ma."  
     "Considering England's always been almost like Venice, I'm not surprised you're unphased by the storms and stuff... ahhh, but this is silly weather talk. I just wanted to hear how you were doing, what were you up to... we miss you, you know?"  
     "I know. I miss you too. As for what I've been up to- hm. I got a new job."  
     "You don't sound very enthusiastic about it, Circetta."  
     "I'm not, but you know- I'm not very enthusiastic about being a lawyer in general. What can I do, though? I'm basically forced to do it. At least the pay is good."  
     "The pay is good? Oh, you must be lucky. But that's good! We've got some friends here... they say their children who're working as lawyers are basically living with them." not a surprising event, it shows in the woman's voice, and Salice isn't amazed either. Italy's always been the same. "I'm not talking about young people! Even adults, way older than you! If they have some parents, they use them just to live by... and then just keep the house for themselves when they die. That's just so cruel."  
     "If they visit their parents and take care of them just to have their house, then they're idiots, too. Serves them right."  
     Salice never liked too much exploitation, and that single phrase alone is enough to show off this trait of hers. No matter from who to who, or from what to what, or from who to what: using someone is never the right answer. Unless you're a particularly smart person with a love for making people suffer and for insecure people who need constant validation, you can't get away with it- and even if, there will always be someone to notice it. Serves them right indeed, thinks Salice.

"I know, right? I thought the same." there's a pause before Salice speaks further; she spends it trying to get some wetness out of her fringe, and damning whatever god there may be for letting her forget the umbrella. She really didn't need to shower, today.  
      "Mom... ugh..." to be constantly stuck in a weather she despises is truly the worst kind of mockery. "Where's pa?"

Although Salice has a better connection with her mom than with her dad, she still likes the old man, not out of the belief that "family is family", but because he's always been a genuinely interesting guy, individually speaking. Salice and Federico have never been truly father and daughter. They're something more akin to best friends, something like that.  
     "Oh, the tough guy. He was tired, so he went for a nap. Did you want to tell him something?"  
  "No, nothing. I just wanted to hear how he was doing. Is he going by well?"  
  "Don't worry about it, dear. He's slowly getting better. The leg is still a little wonky, but I'm forcing him to stay still, so it's not getting worse or anything like that."  
   "Good. He's always so excited and so energetic... he really needs someone like you to stay in place."  


That's why she's always been more similar to her mom. They're both very strong willed and passionate, as much as stern and serious. Salice remembers her then, when she was still little, with her severe looks and sweet prizes; now, of course, she's different. Bubbly and soft. That's a thing age does to you. It makes you change.

Although the rain still hasn't stopped, Salice stands till, cursing once more in her mind as she remembers her cigarettes might be wet and beyond repair by now. After a long day spent researching and investigating, she really needed them.  
     "Salice, honey, now that I think about it," the elder speaks suddenly as if there's something pinching her back- and not something good. Although it could simply be the way she worries about her father, Salice never overlooks tiny details such as this.  It's becoming part of her daily life, rather than just her job. She finds this kind of sad and frustrating.  
     "I'll have to hang up, sweetie. Dad  needs his tea."  
     "Tea fixed with wine?" a scoff and a smirk are emitted from the younger.  
     Salice's mom is obviously less than pleased with the statement, her tranquil look donning a glance laced with irritation only Salice would have the "pleasure" to see. Some people never smile, and when they do, it's a treasure: but there were cases in which somebody's rare but severe glare would be even more than that. " _Salice Tihana Feltracco_ , you know you don't joke about your father's previous alcoholism." the woman's cold tone is answered with Salice's own sighing. Why is there always something she can't do in everything?

"Yeah, I know," her inner, childish irritation remains unattended. Instead, Salice just shrugs, and blinks multiple times as raindrops, once more, managed to fall into her eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. Go take care of the old man."  
     At first, Cecilija hesitates, but soon realizing that pulling the argument further would waste both of their time and that Salice probably would have enjoyed a warm, dry place rather than an unhealthy and potentially toxic rain shower, she lets go. Her daughter is tired beyond reason already, it's obvious in how she's barely looking at the videophone's screen.  
     "Alright, Cece. I'll tell him you said hello, okay?" before letting Salice speak out her regards, her mother cuts her out again, remembering suddenly something. "Ah! By the way, you know who visited us? Greta. She told me to tell you she also said hi whenever I'd hear from you. So... she says hi."  
      Salice adds nothing. The mere mention of Greta's name raises many questions, wonders and doubts, but there is a small, little concern poking at her as of now, that is stopping her from investigating further this mysterious reappearance; the need to get home, quick and fast. After a few hand waves, Cecilija hangs up, and so does Salice.

Her memories are blurry because the rain is blurring everything out, but before sprawling her drenching self upon her old couch, Salice remembers saying and waving goodbye to her mom and then running over some vagabond food truck in order to buy some food, so to eat at least something. In fact, there's smell of fat and oil in the air, but she is not touching it, at the moment. Salice just lays  on the maroon furniture- enjoying its softness despite its old age, and staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. She misses her parents. Seeing them through a videophone isn't, of course, nearly enough as seeing the real thing, but she knows better than to mull over something this silly, Salice muses. It's already a miracle you can get the chance of communicating with them, she further thinks. Her expression visibly scrunches, and an hand passes through her hair.  
      "I'm gonna shower..." she announces, even though there's no one to who she can announce. The next moment her coat's laid on the hanger, and her clothes scattered about.

* * *

The next morning it's time to take a more accurate investigation regarding the theft's whereabouts. More specifically, Psyche has set up an appointment with one of the companies she had mentioned in their meeting a few days ago: Prometheus Tech. "Bringing to you the fire of Knowledge" is their motto, as if it would be enough to justify how their sex robots are the most sold ones in allover the country. Salice never liked companies that took their names and signature phrases from ancient literature, because they felt like a sham to the very same genre. Were the ancient Greeks (and the Greeks themselves) to still exist, they'd probably try and slaughter whoever set up this company solely for the name. Admittedly, Salice wouldn't blame them if they actually did that.  
     Merely stepping before the intimidatingly tall building makes her stomach ache with the ever so familiar feeling of disgust and nausea. Prometheus Tech, much like all the other industries, are a bunch of pigs in suits. The problem is that the "tech pigs" (as she likes to call them), differently from the common "politician pigs", are smarter: instead of trying to dig each other six feet under graves, they collaborate. They're allies.  
     Smart pigs, certainly, but _pigs_ nonetheless. She still feels queasy at the mere thought of having to feed them the person or people that are trying their best to survive in this disgusting present time.

She walks inside the building. Her professional  look, which is alien between the white lab coats, immediately catches the receptionist's attention. Perhaps Psyche went as far as describing exactly what she would have looked like to them so to avoid any bureaucratic inconveniences, and Salice does not know whether to consider that creepy or the norm. As she passes near the reception counter, the young woman tells her to stop for a moment; she does just that. It seems she is communicating with someone (perhaps a superior) through the close-circuit phone. Unusual that they still have these kind of models even though they promote renovation and modernity.  
     "Ms. Felvic," says the receptionist, catching Salice's attention with a startle. It's panicking how many people could know your name even though you don't know them, so she believes: but she doesn't let her short-lived surprise show, simply turning over to listen to the instructions. The receptionist also hands a guests' badge, which Salice sticks to her jacket right away. "Welcome to Prometheus Tech. You may start your visit by following the red path on the floor, which will lead to an elevator. As soon as you're there, you may press the button for the underground floor."  
     _Underground floor_ , huh. Surely they cannot accept a visit such as mine in broad daylight in the main office, Salice muses as she follows the red line sticked onto the floor.  
     White walls, white floors, white doors, white uniforms. This place looks more like a damn hospital than an actual factory. Her thought isn't all that out of place- most people that step into the pigs' den note this particularity. As dirty as they are, they allow themselves to look pristine and clean for the sake of image. Even though everyone knows that they don't just fabricate helper robots or automatic vacuums.  
      While she stands in the elevator, Salice hesitates in pressing the "U" button on the small board by the entrance. She needs to take a deep breath first. Taking these jobs means seeing the ugliest sides of things, and she never likes what she witnesses. May she not be a pure woman, but she doesn't particularly enjoy the dirt as she did once when she was younger- mostly because the dirt that existed then wasn't the dirt that is now.

She presses the button and patiently waits with her briefcase in her hand, standing still as the blinding elevator lights do not express cowardice towards the darkness that's starting to surround it. Salice looks tired, because she is tired. A glance at her old swatch and the elevator music halts, leaving room for the robotic voice's announcement:  
     "You arrived at the underground floor."  
     There it goes.

It didn't take her many steps to reach a group of white coats, dressed with suits underneath, and all wearing a disgusting aura that only politicians can bear. Both the men and the women halt the talking when they see Salice, and a man, which is shorter than the rest, sticks out from between two other colleagues to offer her an hand and an incredibly despicable smile. What's worse is that he's genuinely smiling because he knows she's going to cover both the corporation's ass and his own.  
     "You must be the Felvic agent Psyche mentioned. She told me you are quite talented when it comes to investigating and handling the law," disgusting, disgusting man. The way he speaks makes Salice want to rip his face off, but she can't. And everything is just a _little_ more unbearable because of this limit.  
     "It is me." she offers her hand aswell for an handshake, and she is thankful she's wearing gloves. It's difficult to hide her hatred, but she can and will do anything to obtain the money she's been promised. "I'm here to investigate on the androids' missing parts and the one who stole them. However, I'd rather appreciate you show me and tell me all the details you have to provide. Psyche must have told you that, no matter how private, any secret must be told. I'm not here to fool around."  
     The group doesn't look pleased with her speech, but the man, on the other hand, seems quite complacent. Willing, no, eager to say anything. He takes an intake of breath, then exhales as he speaks, "Very well, miss Felvic. Very well."  
     He starts walking, letting his heels resound on the metallic floor as he does.  
     "This way. I'll show you the labs."

* * *

Salice knows that buildings have gotten bigger and bigger through the years, but right now, she feels as if she is walking through an underground city, rather than a bunch of laboratories stuck in one floor. The man- the co-director of Prometheus, _Cole Lemond_ \- said just a moment ago how they are "blessed with the existence of a thirty meters deep hangar in which they can stash old projects and body parts along with anything that has been scrapped", and that fact alone made the woman shiver with what truly seems to be intimidation. Just how _deep_ does this building get?  
     The straight walk they have been taking for quite a while (about fifteen minutes, exactly) takes a turn to the left, not any single white coat objecting the man's walking speed. Surrounding them, instead of white, there's now grey. A dull, opaque grey color, which renders the scenario more depressing and oppressing than the overused white of the upper floors: that, in itself, should be considered a feat within a feat.  
     "Now, miss Felvic- there's something vital you must know. As you said before, any deep secret must be revealed for you to achieve a complete investigation, and I'm willing to agree with that term," the group looks concerned, while Salice merely raises a brow. "But you must know that this information I'm about to show you, rather than just give, is strictly, dangerously confidential. Talking about this with anyone can and will put you in potential danger. We're not here to play games either."

"..." Salice keeps silent for a moment. She doesn't move an inch, looking motionlessly at the man with an unimpressed glance. As if this were the first time she's been threatened to keep her mouth shut about what she sees. "Mister Lemond, I'm afraid you haven't read my resume thoroughly. I'm well damn certain you'd kill me cold-blooded if I said anything."  
     Lemond eats his own words as he is about to reply, but doesn't look shocked by her straightforward reply. With a gesture of his hand, he beckons his colleagues to split themselves apart; possibly telling them to go back to their respective duties in order to keep a more tight sense of secrecy.  
     Salice is well aware that if she didn't have the protection Psyche assures her, she would have been dead since a long, long time.  
     An electronic voice interrupts the silence. "Please say your name and press your thumb on the fingerprints scanner.", it says, and he talks back, "Cole Lemond, co-director," while pressing his finger right on that squared screen. Beep, and the door is open.  
     "Please do come in."  
     His courtesy is _nauseating_. Salice follows him into the mystery room.

Like all the other laboratories, it's full of scientists and roboticists working either together or individually on a common project, each of them assigned to a specific part of it. It's not a loud workspace, but it seems far more lively than the ones she has seen before- maybe because there aren't only factory workers controlling that the producing machines are working correctly. This is a group of people actually trying to collaborate together for a bigger sake. It's almost paradoxical how a corrupted corporation like Prometheus can afford this kind of social habitat inside its structures.  
     "Magnificent spectacle, isn't it?" Lemond speaks proudly, noticing Salice's enthralled look. Admittedly, it's been long since she has seen humans being nice to other humans. Most of the time, they waste their breath on trying to choke one another, nowadays. "It is marvelous how people can still bear each other enough to cooperate together like the amazing individuals in here are. Believe me, miss Felvic, they do exist. They are _rare_ , but they exist."  
     What a beautiful speech coming from a mud-eating being, she thinks. For a moment she wonders whether or not these poor people have any clue why they have been recruited- where they have been recruited, but she immediately scratches the option of being tricked into taking such job. To join places like Prometheus, you must know what you're getting yourself into. These people may be friendly, but they are no less tainted than this devious co-director is.  
     "Joan? Could you please come here?"   
     All of a sudden, the man calls out to a roboticist working on a synthetic skin mould, her uniform including thick plastic rubber gloves and dirt all over her coat and face. Salice notices that she looks indeed tired- and considering how she is working individually, and how she is dirtier than the others, she assumes that she may not be the whitest sheep of the group. The young woman drops what she is working on, takes her plastic goggles off along with her gloves. She stuffs both of her items into her pockets as she walks over to Lemond, who immediately grabs her shoulders with his hands so to turn her to look at Salice more clearly.   
      What an odd girl...

"Miss Felvic, this is miss Joan Holl. She is a prodigy, you see. Truly an ingenious roboticist, she is! It is no wonder she works with us, as she has very interesting programming and design skills. She built very important projects such as the Amelie and Lucy, which are both robots of impeccable commercial success," truly an unlikely mind to be behind those sex bots, Salice keeps in mind. This Joan lass gives all but the impression of a woman who takes joy into creating those kind of products, but she doesn't let it distract her further.  
     Lemond looks quite prideful about her. Obviously. She managed, along with the others in this room, to make an already rich company even richer. Despite the neutral expression, it's noticeable on Joan's face how she stiffens under the man's tightening grip on her shoulders. "Considering I have a meeting to attend, miss Felvic, for now, I ought to leave you. However, I'll be back here in no less than an hour. Excuse this fallacy within our encounter, but I really couldn't do anything about it." his hands let go, and Joan's shoulders relax. Salice glances at her, then at him. "In the meantime, I'll leave you in Joan's trustful hands. She will explain you what this section is all about and how they work. Show miss Felvic some models too, won't you?"  
     His suggestions (that sounded more like orders and imperatives) are met by the roboticist nodding, not even looking at him in the eye when he keeps his glance on her. He seems unusually confident and certain that she won't spill anything hot, and she, on the other hand, looks like a child that's been forced to work since when six.  
     The co-director walks away, leaving Joan and Salice lingering while the first's colleagues keep on working and chatting. It is most certainly an awkward situation.  
     That doesn't stop Salice from trying to engage an at least effortful conversation with this girl. A scoff: "Miss Holl, excuse me if I sound not so professional," Joan's glance turns to the woman, and is most likely questioning silently her words. "But I think I need some coffee. Lemond's words tend to be a great anesthetic."  
     Joan has to hide a snort to save her own workspace, but she agrees to accompany her to the coffee machine.

The walk around the "Elaborated Robotics Products" section is being more interesting than she thought it would be. Joan, despite the initial gloomy appearance, is an entertaining guide, and so far, she has shown her fairly intriguing things. It seems that this space, as the very name implies, mostly works and elaborates complex robots for the market. More generally, they design and program "servant bots", in which maids and prostitutes are included, but they also program cars and domestic ware. Anything that requires a specific coding that needs to be as difficult and prickly as a human's mind is assigned to them.  
     "I haven't been working here since very long," Joan admits, still sipping her half-empty cup of coffee. "But from what I've gotten this was once the androids' section. After the companies abolished the construction of robotic humans, it's been changed, and everything has been destroyed... or, well. Almost anything."  
     "What do you mean?" _almost?_  
     "I mean that while the minds and the programming have all been erased, destroyed, stepped on, Prometheus decided to keep the exterior shells of every project, as an example and reference. In fact, a lot of the humanoid bots we created are inspired by these "sculptures", if you want to call them that."  
     Salice keeps silent for a moment. This is definitely something I shouldn't forget, she thinks. It's simply weird how a big company that wants androids to be destroyed from the core still maintains the older models' outer shells- for "reference". It just sounds dead suspicious. "Isn't this classified information? Can you actually tell me this stuff?"  
      Joan shrugs. "Oh, as long as you don't tell anyone out of here, it's fine. _Everyone_ in Prometheus knows this fact." by how indifferently she reacted to her query, Salice assumes Lemond might not be so much of an oppressor as he might seem. That, or Joan is extremely good at faking her own exhaustion.  
     "Well, if that's the case... I'd like to see them."  
     "The shells?"  
     "Yes. This might be important for my investigations."

At this point, Salice cannot hear it, but Joan feels her own heart stop for a second. Her previously composed lucidity seems to falter ever so slightly, and she blinks, looking oblivious and rather perplexed.  Investigations? What kind of investigation? Did they notice? Already? "Ah..."  
     Salice squints. Her stance turns so to be ready for an eventual collapse- because Joan surely looks as if she's about to fall limp on the floor. "Miss Holl, are you okay?"  
     Joan regains her composure by shaking her head a little and squeezing her eyes behind her glasses. "Y-yes," no. "I'm sorry. Don't mind me. Sometimes, I get dizzy... as much as I am a good worker, insomnia has got a tight hold on me," her lips let out a light laughter, but her expression does not do the same. Please, anything but that. It's too soon for them to have noticed that something was wrong.  
     "..."  
     The girl seems shook, Salice is very aware. She is not sure if she should press further- but if this girl is not asking any questions, then it must be no more than what she just said. A simple dizzy feeling. (But it's still suspicious how she faltered after she uttered "investigations".)  
     "Perhaps, miss Holl, you'd rather not show me the shells? I'm fine with that. I can relax a bit while-"  
     "N-no! No, it's fine. I can show you. I've got the authorized card, anyways. I don't see why you shouldn't." in order to look less suspicious, it's better for her to collaborate, no matter how much that might go against her actual will. Joan sticks an hand in one of her pants' pockets, and after rummaging for a bit, she sticks out what seems to be a really, really, really tiny bank credit card. It looks absolutely ridiculous.  
     "Funny, right?" a smirk ghosted over her lips, "It's not even the strangest access device in here. I've heard that you have to press over your whole foot, sometimes, in Agora's buildings," that small gossip managed to rip a chuckle out of Joan, and an amused smile from Salice. Just another proof that security systems are not only getting more complicated, but also _stupider_.  
     Following Joan through a glass corridor from which she can see more colleagues of the ERP section, they finally stop before a door, which much looks like an elevator's. Before Salice can ask anything, though, Joan is already speaking in the formalities. "Joan Holl, Elaborated Robotic Products, employee 45-JHL9425. Programming and Design division." all after she'd slipped the tiny card into an equally tiny fessure below the speaker. Not even a minute passes that a robotic voice grants access.  
     Joan steps in, and  Salice follows right after. The first presses a button, and Salice notices, much to her dismay, that they may be going even more down into the earth than they already are. "God..." she mutters out loud. Joan seems to grasp Salice's distress, and sighs, expression resulting as rather defeated.  
     "I know. I know. Don't worry, we won't say long."  
     "It's not much staying there as much as the thought that you guys might be getting a little too close to the core of this damned planet," Salice remarked, somewhat bitterly. Joan does nothing to object, and simply stands still, waiting for them to arrive at the desired floor. The moment the voice rings, "You are at the -5 underground floor."  
     Minus five. _Minus five_. Good God, these Prometheus blokes are _nuts_.

Trying to ignore the fact that they are probably Lord knows how deep into the ground, Salice follows Joan, and dutily notes that the scenario looks and feels much different. For a start, everything is dark. And for once, she feels at home, because the surface is always dark. Second, there are neon, weak lights barely illuminating the corridor they are walking through, which makes the experience ever the slightest more pleasant than it has been until now. Somewhat, this place seems more down-to-earth (no pun intended); more human friendly. Salice can well see that Joan, too, is less tense than she was about a moment ago, between all those untainted lab coats. In fact, her steps quickened, as if she eager to show the naive visitor about the grand exposition that they have hidden underneath thousands of layers of dirt. At one point, Joan suddenly halts: over her head, a sign reads "ONLY AUTHORIZED STAFF ALLOWED".  
     "I'll show you I'm authorized, alright," the roboticist said, and with a few motions Salice couldn't quite catch with her sight, she opens the sliding metallic door successfully.  
     "Okay, Salice. I'm gonna turn the lights on."  
     Preparing herself for a light blast, Salice squints her eyes in defeat, but she finds herself surprised as to feel- or, well, see- that the lights are not strong, but good enough to see what's before them. Her jaw drops in pure disbelief.  
     Had she not been warned that these are android shells, she'd be very concerned as to why these humans are being kept in formaldehyde. This is something she's ever only seen in old science fiction movies; but this is no film. This is reality, and those bodies seem as human as ever.  
     "Beautiful, right?" says Joan, dreamily as she glances over at every single one of them. "There's one specimen per project, although they're not exactly all of them. Prometheus superiors decided to keep the best ones, and thrashed away the old androids." she may find it beautiful, Salice thinks as she slowly walks down the small room to examine each body, but this is eerie. Creepy. This doesn't even remotely compare to _resurrecting_ _a corpse_. This is a sorcery in itself, and while her younger self wouldn't have bet on that, she does right now. For what reason has this bunch of porks thrown away such precious lives? They may be robots, but they're constructed to be robots with feelings. What kind of _slaughter_ is this?  
     "They look... so human." Joan, distant about two meters from Salice, doesn't step closer. But she does turn her head to look at the lawyer.  
     "They do. It's a pity. I don't know what they did to deserve this... but they didn't."  
     Salice simply agrees. She wishes she could take a photo of this horror.

Her shocked self is snapped back to reality when Joan steps closer to her, taps her shoulder, and motions her to walk back. "I think it's about time we go back up. I've shown you enough, and Lemond might be already waiting for you," the sole mention of that man's name makes Joan's expression twist into a displeased one. It's much obvious she does not like him: but at the same time, she can't do anything about it. Salice understands this oh too well. The women take the reversed path towards the elevator, and once the security procedure is done once again, they're stuck in a weird, uncomfortable silence. The placid and quirky music in the background isn't of much help, admittedly.  
     Salice wants to ask Joan what Lemond has done to make her feel so belittled when he's around her, but she doesn't dare. More likely, it is perhaps best that she just keeps the wonder to herself. She's not even sure if they can see eachother again, despite this surprisingly casual "tour".

* * *

After the look-around Joan has offered her, the moment they're on the underground floor they are both greeted by Lemond, which has been waiting for them. Salice does all the talking, because all of a sudden Joan's mouth sewn shut, but she does not mind. Eventually, without even having the chance to thank Joan, Salice is dragged by Lemond into his office. "The archive hangar is closed," he says, "An inconvenience has occurred. Nothing related to the thefts," he says. Salice just thinks it's all the more excuses so she cannot have the chance to investigate properly. This means that she'll have to come back here again; and the thought sickens her. It does.  
     Once they are in Lemond's personal office, Salice opens her suitcase and lets it rest on the seat beside her. Piece by piece, the man hands her all the documents that Psyche had them prepare for her, and piece by piece, the case gets fuller and fuller with documents and dossiers as minutes pass. (She will be surprised if she manages to close it without using brute force.) There isn't much of a conversation going on- thankfully, because she personally finds this man the least pleasant partner- but when he hands her the last booklet, his fingers interlace through each other and his elbows lean on the glass desk. His expression looks nothing short of suspicion, and perhaps a little worry.  
     "Did you enjoy having the tour around the ERP section, miss Felvic?"  
     What an equally suspicious little question.  
     "I can say I did, yes. Miss Holl is a good guide."  
     "Did she, by chance, tell you about the models they use as examples for their own designs?" hearing the way he puts it, it sounds as if Joan shouldn't have done that. But Joan also said everyone, in Prometheus, know about it, and that it isn't weird nor dangerous.  
     "Yes. Is there a problem?" Salice makes sure to have her arched eyebrow be seen. "Are you, by chance, implying that I should _not_ know of it?"

He evidently notices her own suspicion, which is why he leans back into his chair, and lets out a sigh. "No, no, not at all... Of course, you can't speak of it outside of this building, if not with your superiors," his tone of voice sounds as if he's trying to patch up a gap that he clumsily just made. "I've been simply wondering what you could make of that information. It's all old history. Perhaps not a good one, but..."  
     "Excuse me, mister Lemond, but I'm afraid you, once again, got my resume wrong. I am, from now on, your and your alliances' lawyer and private detective. I am discovering who stole the material, and I am trying to patch up a compelling case that will have you big-named people stay afloat. You are paying me for discovering criminals, but the essential thing is that I need to know you and whatever dirty little act you've done to figure it out. For all I well know, those androids could mean something. Maybe they can be useful. So, for the Lord's gracious sake, and for mine, let me do my work peacefully the way I want to do it."  
     He kept and is still keeping silence after her spiel.  
     "Now, mister Lemond, excuse me, but I have to do something very important: eat. I may come back for some further queries and examinations."  
     The absence of any emotion on his face made her want to grab it in her own hands and crumble it into a mess, out of pure irritation and frustration, but she instead grabs the case, closes it, and walks out. In less than a minute,  Salice Feltracco is out of the building.

She hates these men. She hates these people. She hates _herself_ for committing to such a disgusting job.

* * *

There's something _wrong_ with her, he can feel it.

There's just something that's not quite right. Usually, Joan is chirpy and cheerful whenever she is at home, it takes her no time to drag her pout into a smile, but today she seems particularly... odd. He doesn't know how to describe it, what is the right word. But she is not okay. It's been hours since she has stopped typing on her computer, and it's been hours since he's seen her move out of that chair.  
     _Frustrated_. That's the word. Joan seems unusually frustrated.  
     She's not even paying attention to him. It's making him a tad sad, in all honesty. Jean keeps staring at the empty spot on the bed that they are, for now, sharing, and his eyes are slowly darting from the spot to the back of Joan's head. What is the looking for? What is she so... worried (that's another word!) about?  
     At last, Joan throws herself back on the chair, but she doesn't turn around to tell him she will get ready and then come to sleep. Instead, she is pulling at her electric hair in a desperate attempt. Jean doesn't want to guess erroneously, but she seems to be muttering under her breath almost obsessively. He closes his eyes to concentrate on her breathing and her words. As he realizes the laying position is not helping, he tries sitting up.  
     'Felvic... Felvic... Felvic...'  
     "Who's Felvic?"

The scream that follows his own words scares him, but perhaps not as much as he scared her. Joan has been so immersed in silence that she didn't expect to hear any sound other than her tapping for the rest of the night. Shit. He's not sleeping?, Joan thinks. And while she would scold him for scaring her, her eyes look at his innocent expression, and she cannot find the heart to do it. Her hands pull back the fringe, now sticky from the nervous sweat, and she swiftly takes off her glasses, fingers pinching the bridge of her nose as she closes her eyes. Her head feels like it's going to explode.  
     "G-God..." she feels horrible. And the only one at fault is herself.  
     "Who's- who's Felvic?" he repeats his question again, slightly surprising Joan. The woman sighs and she places the glasses on the desk, turning her seat to face him with a tired expression.  
     Jean swears that this is the _most tired_ she's looked ever since he first saw her.  
     "Felvic, is..." at first Joan starts, but her phrase dies immediately after she does, "...N-no. Nevermind. Jean, you- you should sleep. Don't mind me, I'm just... working."  
     "You look tired, Joan. You should sleep."  
     "Really, no. I'm fine. You need to rest, Jean, because you need energy. I'm... ugh..." her head keeps aching. How she now holds her head doesn't go unnoticed by him. Jean, seeing her look so down, so tiny, somehow, feels that he needs to act upon his worry. And to do that, he needs to get closer: which is what she does. However, as soon as Joan notices that he's getting off the bed, the hand that covers her face vanishes to be replaced by a stubborn expression.  
     "What are you trying to do?" she asks. But not gently, calmly. This time it's bitter. Her nervosity is getting the best of her, but she doesn't realize it, and neither does he. Jean just keeps stepping closer, and the moment he's less than a meter distant, Joan jumps upright. Her legs are barely keeping her standing, so she leans on the desk to balance herself out. " _What are you trying to do?_ " louder, this time.

How her voice changed concerns Jean further, which is why he doesn't hesitate in pursuing the objective of putting Joan to bed. She looks tired, and she should sleep. That's what she told him: "If you're tired, then lay on the bed and sleep. It's good for you."  
     "It's good for you," Jean says. He is determined but innocent in repeating her own words, and Joan knows more than anything else that he means the best. But right now, she cannot give in. She will not. She doesn't have the slightest courage to lie down, close her eyes, and see what she doesn't want to see- not today. Not today.  
     "It's _not_ -" her voice gets louder every moment she speaks, and Joan hates it. This is escalating in something bigger than it should be. Why is he awake? Why is he concerning himself over her? "It's not good for me." Jean steps closer, and she takes a step away. Her hands are becoming tense, and her legs are trembling. Although Joan's expression isn't deliberately scrunched, it could be well described as utterly terrified. Jean is curious, but he feels guilty in his curiosity. Is it so wrong to know _why_ she doesn't want to sleep?  
     "It is good for you." he insists.  
     "It's not good for me!" she shouts, and this time, her voice is shakier. "It's not- it's not good... it's... it's! No! Don't come near me! Stay away! _Stay away!_ "  
     Her last scream is enough to make Jean hesitate for a moment; he is thoroughly, immensely confused. She needs to sleep, but she doesn't want to. Why? Why doesn't she want him to come near her? What is happening? What has happened for Joan to be like this? He feels scared. He feels scared for himself but also for her. What is plaguing her mind so much that she feels the need to scream? "Joan- Joan, please, listen to me-"  
     "No! No!" not even her arms can keep her thin, fragile weight, by now; she is shaking, trembling far too much. Joan feels as if she is going to shatter into tiny pieces. And figuratively, she does, because her limbs completely give out, and she collapses on the floor, with her back leaning on the desk's leg. "Don't- don't come- please...!"  
     "Joan... Joan," even his own voice is trembling, and he doesn't know why. Seeing Joan, the girl that has been taking care of him so warmly, shattered into pieces like this is... what's the word for it? He can't seem to think of the right term. As he keeps talking, he takes his chance to crouch down, and with that, step a little closer to her. Joan's crying. She's whimpering and crying, her expression is all warped, and she doesn't look like the usual Joan. This is still unsettling, and he does not know what he should exactly do.  
     "No... no..." Joan cannot even recognize him. Her eyes are so full to the brim with tears that all she sees is a blur and something getting closer to her with every second that passes. She wants to object, but strength has completely left her. "I don't... want to do this... to you... no... I'm sorry..."  
     "Joan, it's okay..." at last, he manages to sit beside her. It took long and it was hard, but he finally managed to achieve his objective. Tentatively, he tries to stroke her hair, but her head snaps to the other side, rejecting the touch almost by reflex.

Tears keep rolling down her cheeks, and eventually, her glance turns back to Jean, who she still can't quite recognize. She looks confused. A minute, maybe even more, passes, and after she squints, her eyes snap open wide. The immense guilt she feels is written all over her face and attitude.

"Oh God, Jean! Jean!" now her voice is louder, but it's not angry. It sounds desperate. Her hands, which were so keen on avoiding him, are now holding his face gently, despite their unavoidable trembling. Jean is feeling more and more confused by the seconds, as he still does not know if Joan is normal again or not, but there's something telling him that perhaps, right now would be the ideal time to scoop her into a hug.  
     He doesn't waste much time and simply follow his instinct. Joan doesn't try to run away when he wraps his arms around her. Instead, even if her hands let go of his cheeks, she's still staring at him as if she'd just murdered him. "Jean, dear, J-Jean, I'm so sorry... You had to see that, I'm so sorry, I'm so, so, _so_ sorry..."  
     "Why... why are you sorry?" he naively asks. Being still so shaken by what happened less than ten minutes ago, he does not quite know what to do. "You didn't do anything wrong, Joan. But I'm confused. _What_ happened?"

In his questions, which are so sweet, but also so uncertain, Joan cannot help but find a hiding spot.  A small safe place, in which she can consider herself secure. Far from pain. Far from people who want to hurt her.  
     Joan sighs. He is warm, despite being mechanical, and she thrives off of his warmth. She forces a small smile upon her lips, her reddish eyes glancing at him with a tired, but endeared glance. She wants to answer him, she wants to tell him what's going on, but he wouldn't understand. He cannot. He does not have to. In fact, it's better she doesn't tell him anything at all. It's too early for that to happen, Joan thinks, it's too early. It'd destroy him, and it'd be all my fault.  
     Those are the thoughts passing through Joan's mind as she drifts into sleep, right in Jean's arms. His eyebrows frown, disappointed that he does not get his answers right on the spot, but he doesn't whine about it. Instead, he decides to get up while still holding Joan in his arms, and he lies her on the bed, making sure to cover her body with the blanket. He lies down too, but it takes a long time before he can fall asleep.

_Heartbreaking_. That's the word he has been looking for.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm kinda nervous to post this kinda thing, but it's the first plot-based multi chapter writing I'm planning, so I don't see why I shouldn't do it. This is such a self-indulgent thing (not only indulgent for me, though), but I like where this is going.  
> Also deliberatedly inspired by Blade Runner, aka Ridley Scott's 1982 movie, and a bunch of other sci-fi android-involving movies like Ghost in The Shell, the original 1995 animated picture. I always liked the philosophical take on androids and their capability of feeling emotions and feeling human, so I want to give my own version of it.


End file.
